


Firelight

by TheArrow



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Campfires, Character Study, Conversations, F/M, Friendship, One Shot, Slow Burn, Wicked Grace, You May Have To Squint To See The Shipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 16:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5011858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArrow/pseuds/TheArrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By the campfire, they are just people and the fate of the world doesn't have to rest on their shoulders. Not until morning, anyways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Firelight

The one who was now called the Herald of Andraste started awake, rain pelting down on her face. She'd dozed off sitting against a tree. Her neck felt taught and rigid from falling asleep with her head resting against the tree trunk. The rain was slanted from the wind, reaching her despite the wide foliage sheltering her from the sky.

The Herald and her companions had spent the previous two days clearing off a swathe of territory that had been held by angry templars, and though it was not too late into the night, she had dozed off for a moment at the edge of camp, just as they had finished setting up the tents and digging the firepit, warning a scout to bring a handful of Inquisition soldiers this way to help hold the area through the night. It worried her, spreading out their forces like this. The Dalish preferred moving as one through the landscape, but she supposed that she was surrounded by enough tacticians that if they were spreading their resources too thin, someone would speak up.

So far all was well. She lingered on the ground against the rough bark, closing her eyes for a moment and listening to the comforting sounds of the woods at dusk, and the nearby campsite.

It had been three weeks since the Inquisition had begun the task of claiming the Hinterlands, and there had been many excursions back and forth from Haven in those three weeks to resupply and reconvene with the War Council. She (irrationally) preferred the open skies in the mountains to the walled town of Haven, though the work out here was never done. There was the arduous and extremely painful matter of closing the rifts that had started tearing in the skies. And then there were the refugees. Between fighting mages, templars and demons, she almost welcomed the time spent coordinating and providing in the camps. The Inquisitor thought of Clan Lavellan, of her Keeper, her parents, her people. Her mind imagined rifts opening in the skies above the forests of Wycome, of demons and monsters emerging from rift-torn soil, devouring the halla and hurting the children. Without her to close the rifts, they would be forced to run, to hide. She tried not to dwell, though the task was easier said than done, and she had to swallow the panic that rose in her chest.

Over by the fire, she heard the laughter of her companions and wondered if it wasn't time she stopped sitting in the rain, far from the fire.

By the time she rose to her feet and walked to the fire, the rain had lessened to a cool mist, which she was grateful for. She did not enjoy tampering with weather magic unless absolutely necessary, and to be honest she also worried about sharing that particular skill with her new friends, who were decidedly not Dalish and who all had quite interesting, if worrisome, perspectives on magic. Calling on a storm to destroy demons was one thing, manipulating the weather for comfort was a whole other topic she did not want to broach if necessary.

Cassandra, Varric, Solas, and Blackwatch were arranged in a semi-circle by the fire, and she was aware of their eyes upon her as she approached them, though their conversation did not abate.

She sat down without making noise, as she had learned to do among her people, and listened.

"Varric, are you quite finished with this nonsense. You keep losing, and this is becoming painful to watch." Cassandra drolled, though her eyes looked warm in the firelight despite the furrow in her brow.

"If only the man would agree that Diamondback is an inferior, sad game compared to Wicked Grace," Varric grunted out, examining his card hand.

Maybe it was the firelight, and the familiar setting of folks gathered around a fire in the cool night air, but Lavellan found herself slipping into an ease she had not felt in all her time since leaving her Clan. She had warmed up to Varric significantly in the past few weeks, and though she admired Cassandra, the tall human woman still towered over her. Blackwall seemed an imperturbable tower of fatality, though he was not unkind in his way, especially given how we was easily swayed into playing cards with Varric. Solas was lost in thought, his face betraying how faraway he was, but she had come to expect that from him.

It wasn't the first time she'd found herself surrounded by her companions and thinking of them as companions, she noticed.

"What are the rules?" Lavellan asked, startling them. They had become accustomed to her steadfast silence in social gatherings.

Varric looked like she'd just produced a small mountain of jewels, by the look of his broad smile. "Yes! I knew eventually you'd become curious enough to ask."

Cassandra snorted. "Let's not pretend you've been losing all this time just for our Herald's sake, here. No one here believes you are that noble."

"Or that good at cards." Solas supplied in an even tone. Lavellan raised her eyes to see the apostate mage sitting on a fur thrown over a log, his hands clasped under his chin. He'd been ignoring the card game until now.

"Well, Diamondback is usually played in pairs, my lady," spoke Blackwall. "I would be happy to teach you the rules."

"I don't want to deprive Varric of his card game." Lavellan answered quietly, and it unnerved her how attentive they were in this moment, sitting there quietly around the fire, staring at her. Even three weeks had not removed the feeling of being so utterly alien. "Perhaps," she continued, "I could watch you play, you would be so kind as to explain the rules?"

"Well," countered Varric, his eyes sparkling, "I think this is the ideal time to start playing Wicked Grace. That game can have many, many players, there's no upward limit really, and it's much more interesting than Diamondback. What do you say, Herald?"

All eyes were on her now, even more intently than before.

Quickly she measured her options. She wondered if she should refuse and ask to watch, as was her usual way. She wondered if she should look at Cassandra pleadingly - perhaps the Seeker would be able to say something to assuage her nerves.

She felt the mark on her left hand surging with her own nerves, though she answered Varric's request: "I would be happy to play. Cassandra, Solas, would you care to play as well?" She tried to sound casual, or so she hoped. She did not have much practice with casual.

Perhaps Cassandra took pity on the quiet Herald, because she readily agreed to a match of Wicked Grace. With Cassandra's participation assured she already felt better, like she’d done something right. With Cassandra's acceptance, Lavellan, emboldened, looked Solas directly in the eye with a small smile. "Will you join us, Solas?"

"I suppose I will." Solas responded evenly, his face impassive. However he relaxed his arms and straightened his back, looking a little less preoccupied.

She discovered that the game was a game of subterfuge, and though she didn't quite feel like she would get the hang of it, she began to feel a warmth growing in her chest as the game unravelled the tension between the companions. Blackwall and Varric had flasks of some extremely pungent liquor they shared with the others, and Lavellan was encouraged when even Cassandra took a sip. It tasted awful and pungent, worse than most potions she'd ever had to consume, but Varric's smile when he toasted her to drink was contagious.

To the surprise of them all, it was Solas who did most of the winning, outmanoeuvring even Blackwall. But every now and then the others relied on luck to chance a win against the apostate. Lavellan wondered if the apostate simply spent a lot time examining the others’ behaviour, or if he might be using magical means of fixing the game to win.

She considered it, but Solas had always seemed rather straightforward to her. He was aptly named, certainly: pride incarnate in so many respects. Observing him while he examined the new cards Varric had just dealt him, she decided that his skill at this game was not magic, but strategy. Certainly a very stern face, helped.

When it was her turn, after calling her wager, she caught his gaze and held it, attempting to test her theory. Perhaps Varric's awful drink had given her a bit of daring, as she boldly smiled for the apostate elf. He did not move his gaze from her face, or indeed her eyes. For a moment she thought she saw his mouth twitch, and indeed after a brief moment his eyebrow raised. She noticed the colour of his eyes, then. They were grey, very grey, like the seas after the storm breaks, before the sun has a chance to reveal itself.

She felt her ears, her cheeks redden, but felt vindicated when Solas proclaimed: “Very well, Herald. I call your bluff. Show me your cards." He displayed his hand for all to see, waiting for her to reveal her own hand.

Varric snickered.

She showed them all her hand. "Can you all confirm what I see? I want to be certain that I've won this round," she spoke shyly. Cassandra's face broke into a wide, knowing smile (which still, somehow, managed to scare Lavellan a little).

"It seems, Solas, that the Herald has outmatched you this time."

"Indeed." Solas agreed curtly, returning his cards to Blackwall, the dealer for the next round.

"Oh if only we had agreed to wager more than tokens. Next chance we get, I'm going to make sure to have something real to drink, and I'm going to get you all down to your knickers during a game of Strip Wicked Grace." Varric proclaimed, examining the cards that had just been dealt his way.

Blackwall coughed.

Cassandra tried to look offended, but she could not resist teasing the dwarf: "Such a ploy will turn against you, Varric. You will be the one in your smallclothes, and we will be claiming the shirt off your back."

"A man can only dream, Cassa-" he was interrupted by a loud cough from Blackwall, again. "Fine, fine, I wager five tokens."

Lavellan hid her smile, and wide eyes, as best she could. "I'll match that, friend."

The game continued on for many rounds, until finally they all agreed they needed to rest. The game had postponed their weariness, but these last few days had taken their toll. The Inquisition's soldiers had brought with them more tents, and so they wouldn't have to cram together in small improvised shelters like they had done the last few nights. Cassandra offered to share her tent with the Herald, confirmed the watch rotation with the remaining Inquisition soldier who'd stayed up for the first shift, before bidding good night to the companions and retiring first, leading the others by example as she often did.

Soon, both Varric and Blackwall retired. Blackwall's face seemed eased, somehow, and this observation pleased Lavellan greatly. Solas did not rise, simply staring into the fire, while she rested near the warmth a little longer. Out of the camp's firelight, there were sounds of toads and other creatures. She was certain she had heard an owl nearby. That the wildlife here was so resilient despite the destruction and violence ripping apart the Hinterlands gave her a small measure of relief. Not to mention that these last few weeks, the Inquisition had caused a marked decline in the bloodshed, clearly the forest was responding to the calm that now reigned rightfully over the night.

"I don't think I quite realised how much I missed company by the fire until tonight." Lavellan spoke to Solas, to no one in particular, to herself.

"I think it's only natural for a Dalish elf who no longer has the company of her Clan. It makes sense that you miss them." Solas responded smoothly.

"Yes." she agreed, slowly, "The Dalish also have games and songs that they share around the fire, well into the night. As a child I was often kept awake by the older ones."

She did not see it, but Solas had moved his gaze from the fire to rest on her. She had curled into herself, holding her knees close to her chest with her arms. She wasn't looking at him but at the base of the fire. He realised the Herald was lonely. He also had the distinct impression that she had been lonely long before being given the title of Herald. She had used ‘they’ to distinguish herself from her people, and Solas believed it was the first time she had ever done so, at least in his presence.

"Even after I became First, which was the Keeper's idea, I still watched the fire-games from afar. It makes me happy, but sad too, that here amongst folks who are not my kin, I am finally discovering how to relax and laugh around the fire."

The two elves sat in silence a while longer, and eventually Lavellan realised that she had just burdened a complete stranger with extremely private emotions, and a heat spread from her cheeks to her ears. She really didn't think she'd had enough of the liquor to affect her. Perhaps it wasn't the liquor, she mused, but Solas' quiet presence that had lulled her into a sharing mood, after the excitement of the day, the excitement of Wicked Grace.

"Ir abelas," the Herald finally said. She knew Solas spoke elven well, though their conversations on the Dalish had been a little tense, she knew he was as proud of his elvish heritage as she was.

"If I may ask," the apostate broke the silence, "If you were First, why did the Keeper send you to the Conclave? You must have been studying to become Keeper yourself."

"The Keeper was particularly concerned about war, and it's effects on Tevinter and the north." She had answered the question many times since awakening in that cell after the explosion at the Conclave, and the answer had become automatic.

"I remember you telling Cassandra the same reason, Herald. I agree that being appraised of the Conclave's decision is wise, but I am wondering specifically why you were chosen for the task."

When she looked up at him after a moment, she found it reassuring that she could still see the unfathomable greyness of his eyes, even in the firelit dark.

"I question that almost every day," she answered.

He looked at her expectantly, though she had a feeling he would not press the issue despite his curiosity. Still, she felt as though her relationship with the elf had been tense since the beginning, and he had not spoken to her very much lately. She felt grateful for his quiet attention, perhaps he was offering her a chance, perhaps they could become friends.

"I was, I mean, I am a bit of an anomaly. Even before all of this began." the Herald traced her fingers along her left palm, contemplating the mark that had been left there by the breach. She didn't really know what she was trying to say, and wondered if she would figure out what she meant if she just tried to say it. "The Dalish mages tend to be part of bloodlines - we mages are a minority amongst the Dalish, but if one or both of your parents is a mage, it greatly increases your chances of being born a mage."

"I believe it works similarly with humans mages," Solas stated.

"There have been no mages in my bloodline for as far as anyone in Clan Lavellan can remember," she breathed, "Not my parents, or grandparents. But at age seven I discovered I could manipulate the weather. At first it was the rain."

Solas had been by her side in battle before, and knew of her affinity for lightning and storm magic. She had to fight to keep embarrassment from colouring her face, though she realised that was a lost cause.

"From what I have heard about Dalish mages, I have been told that the magic of the Dalish is often closely attuned with natural forces." Solas supplied helpfully. It was clear, by these words and the look on his face, he expected her to continue.

"I learned how to read, though the Keeper was busy training both the First and Second. Because of my youth, and because my Keeper is a gentle woman, I was not cast out but allowed to remain, to learn." She stopped, there, and when she began speaking again there was a wry look in her eyes, "Well, to tell you the truth I somehow taught myself how to read letters behind the Keeper's back, and from there onwards no book, no lore, no magic, was safe. I think the Keeper was too amused by my tenacity to want to be rid of me completely. And by the time I was ten years old I was, well, a handful."

Solas was frowning. "So it is true that Keepers do not share the skill of reading and writing."

Lavellan nodded. "Few Keepers teach all the children their letters, but most Clans have too much work to do ensuring the survival and wellbeing of the group."

She had returned her gaze to her left hand, missing Solas' sneer. "In retrospect, I was a poor student, though my desire for knowledge was insatiable. I had a tendency to get myself into some pretty horrendous trouble. The idea of duty enchanted me, actually, but it was impossible for me to sit still and do what was asked of me if I had some other more pressing concern, or question..."

Solas did not speak, waiting for the young woman to continue.

"I think there was a restlessness that I could never shake, no matter how much I learned about duty to the Clan, to the Dalish, to the People, I wanted to roam. During those years I wanted so dearly to become a bird, or some creature of the forest. We are nomadic people but it wasn't enough - I wanted to become part of the forest. Or the sea. In the Fade ... I knew of the dangers of the Fade, but I felt so much better when magic or nature surrounded me than in social situations... The other two mages, the ones that were First and Second before me, were so different from me. They seemed..."

Solas thought to say something, but worried she would not finish her train of thought if he did.

"I didn't understand how they could be mages, yet be so unlike me," she was blushing ever so slightly, Solas realized, and he wondered if it was from the shame of being exposed to him or guilt that she was speaking in this way about the mages in her Clan. He wondered if there was anything he could say to put her at ease. She had strayed far from his question, but he had to admit he did not want her to change the subject. Her wandering thoughts were helping him paint a picture in his mind about this woman who wore Mythal's design on her face. Had he not seen her power firsthand in battle, the way she had begun to control the mark on her left palm, he would have assumed she was as unremarkable as the next Dalish woman.

"I admit, Lavellan," it felt wrong to call her by her shemlen title, "Herald", in this moment, "I had noticed your magical affinity was superior to most mages I come across. I have theorized that there must be something in the nature of your skills that allowed you to survive the Fade, and which now allows you to bear that mark on your left palm."

Even in the darkness of the diminishing campfire, he could tell her face had grown bright pink from the flattery.

"Clan Lavellan is one of the more peaceful Dalish Clans. We don't raid human settlements. We have never gone to war with our own kind, not since we decided to call ourselves Lavellan. We rarely, if ever, retaliate against the shemlen who hurt us. My power seemed so disproportionate to the needs of a Dalish Clan that after I was given my vallaslin, during the Arlathven that followed that year, my Keeper convened the Keepers of many of the Clans in secret, and there was a council to determine if I was too powerful, if I had been corrupted by the Fade, if I was just a disaster waiting to happen. They convened, and after two days and two nights I was tested."

Solas was very quiet. He had to restrain himself from speaking unkindly about what he knew about Dalish mages. They were quick to praise the magical abilities of their ancestors, but quick to condemn the skills that awoke in their children. He knew the Dalish could be unnecessarily cruel. Tales of young Dalish children with fledgling magical abilities being abandoned to death and torment were not uncommon. He brought his gaze to the dying embers in the campfire. He wasn't wearing any furs, and his tunic was not keeping him adequately warm. With a small wave of his hand, he filled the campfire with veilfire. It would do for now. He did not miss the smile on Lavellan's face as the flames turned to a bright, shimmering blue.

"Needless to say you passed all their tests." Solas decided to encourage her tale. He wondered if she would share how they had tested her.

"I did," she said. She still wasn’t looking at him. “I admit I do not remember much as I was drugged for most of it."

"You were tested in the Fade,” he realised suddenly. Solas had an idea of how disturbing it must have been for her, and it angered him.

"Yes."

Silence stretched between them. The veilfire crackled, whispering. He moved his gaze from the fire back to her, back to this little elven woman who was sitting quietly by the fire, arms still wrapped around her body.

Eventually she spoke, and he listened attentively.

“To return to your original question, I do not know why I was sent. I thought, at first, that it was because my magic, that it was decided that if I was sent alone I would be strong enough to survive. But now I do not think magic had much to do with it. I believe, though I am not certain, that I was sent to the Conclave because of all the mages in Clan Lavellan, I was the only one who was out of place in the Clan. I think my Keeper believed that this quality gave me an edge when I left the Dalish world.”

She looked at him then, and held his gaze. She was no longer blushing, and indeed her face looked a little more pale than usual. She smiled, then, and said: “Or perhaps because trouble always finds me, if there was trouble at the Conclave, I’d somehow be able to bring it out.”

He looked to her left hand, hanging idly as she uncurled her limbs, stretching her back. That was it then. In exchange for her skill with magic, her skill with letters, she’d been ostracized. She’d been careful not to put too fine a point on it, but it had slipped. He had no doubt that her people had been cruel to her, insecure about her talents, her power. Perhaps not overtly, not to the point where any single action could be used as an example of cruelty, but her words allowed his mind to paint more of the picture, more pieces fell into place. She’d been on the outside before, and was still on the outside now. He wondered, his cynicism taking over, if her clan was relieved that she was gone. Cowards - they hadn’t abandoned her as a child but they had sent her alone on an exceedingly dangerous mission that should have claimed her life. Her survival had been a surprise, not only to him and Cassandra and the others here, but he couldn’t help the bitterness that rose in him. Had they even expected her to survive this journey? He looked at the young girl, and wondered if she sometimes dared hold those thoughts. Did she feel forsaken by her gods, by her people? But her position as Herald was perhaps a chance, for her, a chance to rise above her kin and aspire to greatness. She’d already exceeded all his expectations of her, and he could tell Cassandra had quickly become fond of the young girl.

Young.

She was so very young, he exhaled.

“I am so sorry for rambling Solas. Ir abelas. I thank you for your patience.”

Solas nodded, catching her eye again as she rose to her feet. She was holding her own left hand in her right hand gently. Before she could retire for the evening, he remembered to ask.

“My apologies for not asking before. I was wondering one more thing, what is your given name?"

She simply stared at him for a brief moment, and Solas suddenly worried he’d said the wrong thing. To his relief, she simply smiled again.

“Of course, my apologies for not sharing it sooner. My given name is Asthariel.”

"On nydha, Asthariel.” Solas spoke softly.

“Son era, Solas.”

With a wave of his hand, the veilfire was extinguished slowly. Darkness claimed the campground, with nothing but a few coals still glowing to remind his eyes where the fire pit was. He could hear the sound of a tent flap moving behind him, so he knew that she had made it to the tent. He repeated her name, a soft whisper, once, and then again. He decided that the name pleased him. He returned to the tent he shared with Varric. The Fade was calling.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Crash course in Elvish:
> 
>  **Ir abelas.** I am sorry.  
>  **Son era.** Sleep well.  
>  **On nydha.** Goodnight.  
>   
>  Update **October 18, 2015** \- fixed formatting, and typos  
>  Update **November 4, 2015** \- fixed more typos and a few stray misbehaving verbage, considering writing more of Asthariel


End file.
